It’s 5:45 a.m.

From the living room window, I stare eastward and take in one of the many spectacular views from Quinn’s penthouse ninety-two floors up. I love watching New York City come to life in the mornings. Love watching the light on the Chrysler Building’s spire blend into the rising sun’s rays. Love the warmth of first morning light on my face. And having just come through my first, fierce NYC winter, I crave the sun with almost rabid zeal. It must be the native Californian in me.

New York City is fast becoming the center of my world, though. It’s where the love of my life, the reason for my existence, lives after all. I don’t doubt that Quinn’s presence in the city is what makes it extra special for me.

But it’s also become clear that while he lives in the most dynamic city in the world, this isn’t his home. It was the stage where he plotted his father’s downfall. It became the place we crashed together and almost fell apart. Since then, it’s become the place we exist.

He doesn’t have a home, not after the debasement he witnessed his father commit on his mother in the place he was born. I don’t have a home either. After my mother’s death, I went from Trailer Trash Central to a brothel run by my biological father, where he made me his prized whore until I escaped.

Between Quinn and me, we’ve lost sight of what a true home means. I’ve tried to convince myself nothing else matters as long as we’re together. What happened last night no longer sustains that belief.

I turn my back on the view and survey the carnage before me. Another room destroyed in a fit of demon-charged rage. The third such outburst since we started seeing Dr. Freeman five months ago. I have no concerns that the outbursts would ever transfer to me. Quinn would cut off his own arm before he hurts me. I know that as surely as I know the color of my blood. But things are escalating. I wish I could say they were coming to a head. That there was a cathartic end in sight. But how can I when I have no idea what is causing it?

The one thing I do know is that the situation needs to be dealt with. It’s eroding our trust, fracturing our fragile love.

My heart clenches in fear at the thought of losing what we have. In a world of unlikely possibilities, Quinn and I ending up together was one in a million.

I didn’t fool myself into thinking the path to our future was going to be easy. Yes, finding out that Q, the masked stranger I whored myself out to for a million dollars to save Petra from my father’s vile clutches, was the same as Quinn, the mesmerizing billionaire boss I served lunch to at Blackwood Towers, devastated me. Enough to make me take out a restraining order when it became clear he’d deliberately deceived me but wasn’t about to let me go that easily.

I returned to him on my own terms, despite knowing from the beginning that taking on a man like Quinn Blackwood would be the challenge of a lifetime. I live that overwhelming reality every day. Even before I saw his face, I knew his power over me was borderline absolute and that he intended to own every last cell in my body the way he owns half of the city we live in.

Nothing about Quinn’s rabid possessiveness has changed. I’m twisted enough to not want it to. On some level, I crave it enough to worry Dr. Freeman. But I’m realizing that there are some things that will break us. Like the blackness inside him that he ignores for long stretches.

Until he can’t.

I move to the nearest damaged piece of furniture—a barely used signature Tiffany reading lamp I know cost an insane amount of money. I don’t necessarily mourn its demise. It was okay to look at but it reminded me a little too much of the fake one Clay kept in his study back at the whorehouse grandly named the Villa, where I was kept as his prisoner.

I move the lamp out of my way and walk to the far side of the room. My beloved baby grand piano has suffered too. The lid is still open, and several strings are broken by what looks like a shattered clay sculpture. I run my fingers over the smooth surface, mourning the death of the exquisite instrument.

I have fifteen minutes, tops, before Quinn wakes up and comes to find me. The fancy five-thousand-dollar coffee center that takes up a whole counter in our kitchen will start percolating in T-minus five minutes.

I’m torn as to whether to make the room livable again or leave things the way they are. We have a service that can make all of this disappear in under an hour. All I need to do is make a call to the concierge. But…do I want Quinn to confront what he’s done in the cold light of day? The alternative is to walk away from the chaos. Just as we walked away from the last two scenes of his outbursts in equally stunning apartments on the Upper East Side.

My mouth twists in a smile. Being a billionaire with endless square feet of real estate at your fingertips comes in handy after going berserk and destroying one apartment. After those incidents, we simply upped and moved to another penthouse.

But this property is beyond gorgeous. I’m not with Quinn for his money, but if I were, I’d slavishly fulfill his every desire for the chance to live in this stunning Park Avenue apartment every day for the rest of my life.

A few days after we moved in three months ago, we woke up to an overcast city below us and nothing but blue sky above us. The sensation of floating above the clouds was incredible. We spent the day in bed, staring at the view from our California king when we weren’t fucking in the heavens.

I want many more days like that.

I sigh. Turn around. And freeze.

He’s lounging against the wall in the hallway, wearing gray low-riding sweatpants and nothing else, with one knee propped behind him. My mouth goes dry as those penetrating eyes watch me in silence.

Quinn’s deathly stillness is one of the many unnerving things I noticed about him when we first met. Despite his towering six-foot-three height and his sleek but solid frame, he moves with a quiet, devastating elegance that literally stops my breath when he walks into a room. And that is even before the exquisite masculinity of his sharp cheekbones, square jaw, and sensual lips. The contrast between his startling silver blue eyes and dark hair never fails to trap and hold the attention of anyone he comes into contact with. I’ve literally seen grown women, and men, stop and stare when he walks on the street.

That dangerous attraction holds my total focus now.

His eyes search mine, the unnervingly direct gaze examining every corner of me. Probing for flaws I can’t hide and concerns I’m struggling to contain. But then that’s nothing new.

Despite my constant reassurances that I forgive him, he punishes himself for what he did to me a year ago. He blames himself for the lapse of security that led to Clayton capturing me and holding me prisoner for days as he tried to pry Petra’s whereabouts from me.

After we started seeing Dr. Freeman and it became clear he was more concerned about making amends with me than healing himself, Dr. Freeman and I agreed that, for now, we needed to attend therapy separately once a week.

That didn’t please Quinn.

Now, as I watch him from the middle of the wreckage he created last night, I wonder if that was the beginning of whatever spiral we’re currently twisted in.

“Tell me what you’re thinking about,” he commands from across the room in a low, sleep-rasped voice that makes my toes curl.

I want to start this day with a cleanish (snort) slate. But I know any attempt to evade him will be spotted a mile off. He sees too much. He always has. “Your money,” I reply, choosing the least volatile truth.

His eyes flare for a moment before he shakes his head. “No, you’re not. You go out of your fucking way to avoid anything to do with my money. Try again.”

I’m not touching that statement with a ten-foot pole, so I shrug inwardly and state another truth. “I love this apartment. I’m not moving.”

His unwavering eyes gleam the way they do when he’s debating the pros and cons of giving me what I want. His leg slowly straightens, and he moves toward me. “I said I was sorry. I believe I apologized quite comprehensively. All night long.”

The effect of it is stamped both inside and outside my body. “I know. I was there.”

One brow slowly rises. “But that’s not enough?”

I take a beat before I answer. “You said you were sorry the other times too. But we moved. I’m not moving again.”

He stops behind the wide sectional sofa he fucked me on last night. Strong, elegant fingers spread over the back of it as he angles his body toward me. “I see. Have I finally found something of mine that you love enough to claim for yourself, Elyse?” His voice is a speculative trap, intent on closing around me, wrapping me tighter in his web.

“I love loads of things you own, Quinn. This T-shirt for instance.” I pluck at the only item of clothing I’m wearing. “What’s not to love about a Springsteen T-shirt, especially when it’s covered in your smell?”

He doesn’t smile. Or blink. Or move. His eyes pin me into place. “It doesn’t count because you don’t love it enough not to take it off if you want me to fuck you.”

I chew on the inside of my cheek for a moment. “Okay, you got me there. I love you. I want to claim you completely. Does that count for something?”

His fingers sink viciously into the thick sofa fabric, and his eyes blaze with a fierce light I’m momentarily terrified will consume me. “Something? Try every fucking thing.”

Then why am I standing in the middle of a war zone? I want to scream.

He senses the silent question because his gaze returns to the broken space that was a beautifully appointed room when I left for Vancouver on Friday morning. A look crosses his face, as if he’s steeling himself to make a move he doesn’t want to. I hope with everything inside me that it’s not the need to brush this incident under the carpet and pretend it’s not happening the way he’s done before. The moment passes, and he’s once again under control. Once again the Quinn Blackwood in complete charge of his broken kingdom. In that moment, I decide to take matters into my own hands.

Dr. Freeman needs to start seeing both of us again. We can’t go on like this much longer, especially with the other problem looming over my head. Decision made, I breathe easier.

“So is that a promise that we’re staying put?” I press.

He doesn’t reply immediately. When he holds out his hand to me, I don’t even think of refusing. He guides me around the sofa, pulls me into his arms, and spears his fingers into my hair. Our lips meet in a hungry, thorough greeting. Then he nibbles at the corner of my mouth, my cheek, my jaw to my ear. “I’ll think about not moving us if you agree to spend the day with me.”

I frown and plead with my melting brain to function. “It’s Monday, Quinn.”

One hand trails down my body to squeeze my ass in silent rebuke. “I know what day it is. I’m taking the day off.”

My jaw drops to the floor, and I jerk back to look into his eyes. “No way.”

“Shut your gorgeous mouth before I put my cock in it. I’m buying you breakfast; then I’m buying you another piano. Then we’re spending the rest of the day being slobs.”

He starts to drag me toward the kitchen and the sound of the hissing coffee machine.

I hide my grimace before he can spot it. He won’t like what I’m about to say anyway. I wait until he pours two cups of coffee, passes one to me, and has taken his first caffeine hit before I say, “I can come to breakfast but I can’t go shopping. I have school today.”

His coffee cup freezes midair and then he returns it to the counter and his jaw clenches. “School was Friday.”

“I rescheduled it because of the trip.”

His gaze sweeps down, and he doesn’t speak for a full minute. Then he swallows. “I want to spend the day with you. Forget school today. Play hooky. For me.”

A request, not a command. My brain screams at me that something is happening here. But I can’t tell what it is.

Everything inside me wants to scream yes. But I’ve gone from not believing I’d get a chance at a real life while on the run to having the opportunity to make something of myself. As much as I want to be with Quinn every second of every day, I’m determined to be something more than Quinn Blackwood’s girlfriend. The real estate license I’m studying for is it.

“I want to. You know I do—”

“Don’t say no to me, Elyse.” His deep, low voice vibrates across mine.

 “Then don’t ask me to cut school for you. You know how important it is to me. I’ll only be gone for a few hours.”

He watches me in silence for another minute, and then he pushes his mug away. “Fine. We’ll go to breakfast; then I’ll take you to your class and wait for you to be done. Then we go shopping.” His eyes dare me to refuse.

I have no choice but to refuse, on account of the other thing I need to do today. I’ve put it off for long enough. I don’t want to have my fears confirmed, but I can’t bury my head in the sand any longer. “No, Quinn. You’ll prowl the halls, and I won’t be able to concentrate.”

He stalks over to the sink and dumps his barely touched coffee down the drain. “For fuck’s sake, Elyse. I still don’t understand why you have to travel across town for a course you could’ve done online!”

“So I don’t go stir crazy when you’re not here? Besides, if I want to be any good at selling real estate, I need to know my way around the city, at least, dontcha think?”

“Not at the cost of losing time with you. That doesn’t work for me.”

The man I love is used to having his way. On everything. I knew that going in. That ruthless streak is the reason he’s so wildly successful. But he’s not unreasonable when it counts. He just needs handling with care.

I abandon my own coffee and walk over to him. His tension hits me from three paces away but I’m not daunted. I slide my arms around his bare waist and place a soft kiss between his shoulder blades. A deep shudder rolls through him, and his abs clench beneath my touch. Quinn may own me, but I’m not displeased with the power I have over him. I trail more kisses along his spine. “I have an idea.”

“If it doesn’t involve a serious compromise on the hours you’re proposing to spend away from me, I don’t want to hear it,” he grumbles.

“Let’s skip breakfast. I don’t need to be at school till eleven. That gives us four hours of me being your complete and utter slave. Who knows? I might even wear you out long enough for you to sleep through my class.”

He turns and grabs me by the waist. I wrap my legs around his hips the moment he picks me up. “You’ll never wear me out for that to happen. And you damn well know I don’t fucking sleep when you’re not here.”

“So is that a no to skipping breakfast?” I ask as I bury my face in his neck and take a huge, glorious hit of his warm, vibrant skin. When I add my teeth to the mix, he stumbles on his way out of the kitchen. The T-shirt I claim to love comes off somewhere between the kitchen and the bedroom.

Once he has me pinned beneath him on the rumpled bed, he tunnels his fingers into my hair. Enthralling silver eyes hook into me. “I’m not a decent human being. You know this. So what’s to stop me from tying you to this bed and keeping you here the whole fucking day?”

It’s my turn to tremble at the mildly sinister intent in his voice. Echoes of his past alter ego Q bounce over us as he stares at me. I can’t help but recall the first time he had me blindfolded and tied to his bed. Other than the presence of the cameras he’d been recording our session with, it was one of the most primal and erotic experiences of my life.

“You’re not as bad as you’d like me to think. Besides, you love me.”

A flicker in his eyes acknowledges the power of that statement. “Loving you doesn’t mean I’m happy about this.”

I bring my feet up, hook my toes into his waistband, and nudge the sweatpants down. He lifts himself off me long enough for his cock to spring out before he’s back again, his stiff dick nudging my core. “Besides skipping school, tell me how I can make it better.”

He doesn’t even take a second to think. “Let me buy another horse for Petra.”

“Really? Why?”

“She’s happy, you’re happy. I get less bullshit from you.”

I roll my eyes. “God, you’re incorrigible. What else?”

“You, turning up at two o’clock sharp at Steinway’s.”

“So I am going to be missing breakfast?” I ask hopefully. Breathlessly.

“You are. You get to suffer, too, for making me lose my appetite.”

It’s a punishment I can more than live with. I slide the arches of my feet up the backs of his thighs. “Have you lost all your appetites?”

“You trying to distract me with your pussy works well to a point, baby. You will get fucked, but I’m not done with my appeasement list.”

He nudges me a little, and my breath fractures at the promise of his cock. “Okay,” I say in a rush.

“Dinner at Juniere’s tonight to make up for missing breakfast.”

“Deal.” The third proposal makes me the most happy because I’ve found out since we’ve been together that Juniere’s was his mother’s favorite restaurant. We’ve only been back there a handful of times since the first time he took me there last year. It’s a special place for him, which makes it special to me too.

I lift my head to kiss him. He pulls away.

“Stay still.” More echoes of Q. “Arms above your head. Grip the headboard.”

My breath shakes in my lungs as I comply. He levers himself over me and stares into my eyes as he penetrates me with excruciating patience.

When he’s fully seated inside me, he stops moving. Just stares at me. “Blackwood Estate has a private real estate licensing program. Did you know that?”

Oh God, he’s not done with voicing his displeasure. Too late I realize he was merely changing his tactic, using his most potent weapon.

Sex. Toe-curling, mind-bending sex. The problem is I’m addicted. And Quinn knows this. Knows it and exploits every iota of it.

“Did you?” he presses, while I’m dying with the need to beg him to move.

“Yes.”

He pulls out and slowly glides himself back inside me. My eyes roll in pleasure.

“So you understand how it’s difficult for me not to take what you’re doing personally, especially when you enrolled at this third-rate school without telling me.”

My internal muscles quiver with the cloying need to be fucked. “I…I wanted to avoid…gossip. You don’t need it after—”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” he snaps at me. “After everything we’ve been through, you’re worried about that?”

I bite my lip to stop a pathetic whimper. “The paparazzi have laid off us in the last few weeks. I don’t want to give the tabloids any more column inches. Quinn…please, can we talk about this later?” I plead.

He withdraws an inch before surging forward. The pleasure is remarkable but not nearly enough. “No. There’s more. Tell me.”

“I just wanted…this will be something I achieve on my own without…”

His face tightens. “Interference from me? You don’t want me to be a part of it?”

“You give me so much already. Let this one go. Please.”

A muscle tics in his jaw, and his cock jerks inside me as the stillness begins to get to him too. “Elyse.”

“I’m dying, Quinn. Please,” I whisper. Ruthlessly, I clench my muscles around him, knowing it might earn me a black mark.

His breath hisses from his teeth. Finally, he moves. “I reserve the right to remain pissed at this fucking situation for a while longer,” he rasps as he pulls all the way out and thrusts back inside me. “Understood?”

“Understood,” I gasp.

“Good. Now you can beg me to fuck you harder or you can beg to touch me. Which is it going to be?” he growls.

An impossible choice. Almost. “Can I touch you, please?”

My instinct tells me it’s the right choice when his nostrils flare in a reaction he can’t contain. Besides, he’s harder than fuck, which means he’s moments away from pounding me into the bed anyway.

But still, every particle in my body thrills when he lowers his head until his lips hover over mine. “Touch me,” he commands.

I leave our penthouse on Park Avenue just after ten thirty. The commute to my class is a thirty-minute brisk walk or a fifteen-minute car ride, depending on whether I let Quinn’s driver, Lionel, take me. It also depends on how bad Midtown traffic is. I haven’t made up my mind either way, but as I head down in the elevator, I pull out my phone, take a deep breath, and place the call I’ve been putting off for days.

“Detective Ellen Shultz.”

My heart thuds loudly in my ears and I have to swallow hard before I can speak. I can’t help but recall my last brush with the law when I was kidnapped by Clayton and then rescued by the NYPD.

In the course of the resulting FBI investigation and trial that saw Clay sentenced to a long term in prison, I had to confess to the arson that destroyed the Villa. I also had to confess to killing a man, Ridge Matthews, Clay’s lapdog and the man who’d not only been intent on raping me but had also developed the same fixation on Petra.

Between them, they were determined to hunt her down and make her the latest star attraction at the Villa. Clay, being Petra’s biological father, believed it was his right. I was the only thing that stood in his way. And I fought like hell, and killed, to make sure he never succeeded.

The authorities eventually agreed to not pursue charges against me in return for my testimony against Clay, a deal I happily took. The guilt over taking a life will stay with me forever, but I believed my time of dealing with cops was behind me. The thought that it might not be has been near unbearable. Keeping my suspicions from Quinn has been even worse.

“Hello?” the voice on the phone snaps.

“I…sorry, Detective, it’s Elyse Gilbert.”

“Yeah, I thought that was you.” She sounds harried and a little distracted. Like every other overworked cop in this city. “Hey, I hope you’re not calling to cry off our appointment?” she asks sharply.

I can’t say the thought hadn’t crossed my mind. “No. No, I was calling to confirm it.”

She huffs out a breath. “Okay. Good. Like I said before, it’s better to get ahead of this thing before it becomes a bigger thing, you know?” I hear papers being shuffled in the background.

“Yes.”

“Wonderful. I can do without the shit storm that will ensue if we don’t take it seriously. So I’ll see you at the precinct at one o’clock?”

“Yes, I’ll be there.”

I hang up, take a deep breath, and think about Quinn and what I’m keeping from him. I haven’t stopped holding out hope that this is nothing but my overactive imagination at work. He’ll go absolutely berserk when…if he finds out. But what the hell am I supposed to do?

How the hell do I tell my borderline psychopathic lover and the man who already finds it difficult to let me out of his sight that somewhere along the line I’ve picked up a stalker?